Air
by Aenigmatic
Summary: A day in the life of Erik the Executioner: A life most extraordinary with the wielding of the punjab lasso.


**Air **

**Author's Note:**

_Ever wondered where Erik learnt the art of strangulation? Gaston Leroux mentions it a bit in his book, and well, again, liberty is taken to write out a scene which he so briefly alluded to. _

_Might or might not become a story, since this lies on tentative and experimental ground, and was written on impulse. But first, let's see how well this short chapter goes down._

_Setting: In the northern regions of India, some time before Erik meets Nadir, and way before Christine. _

_Comments/reviews? vesania@gmx.net_

**The Execution**

Presently, the feverish rhythm of the drums disoriented him, a desperate reliance on all but his visual senses. They pounded in unison, a hysterical pulse created by minstrels of glassy eyes and hardened souls. 

He walked tamely as any animal in captivity would as he was led to a courtyard, blindfolded, inhaling the sudden sweet rush of perfumed gardens in the oppressive heat of the dusk, a furtive acknowledgement that he still breatheda sudden, dramatic rip of his blindfold loosed the greed for recovered sight. A man as he was, the anonymous prisoner condemned to death, determined to enjoy the last rites offered by the overwhelming green of nature. 

Animated talk rose to his ears - they conversed in a language that he thought existed only in myths and stories of old. A beautiful language, he thought in passingyet beauty was but grossly mummified in the malevolence of their talk. He turned to face those voices, taking in the excited faces of his spectators in their gaudy finery, the lushness of the courtyard suddenly shrinking, constricting as his throat went dry. 

Looking down, he saw dimly that his wrists were still bound in thick chains, but the casual downward swing of a monstrous axe splintered them into two, its clean break marked by careless clang of chains that dropped to the ground. 

He was free, or so he thought, free to run, free to fly into the embrace of green fields and stormy skies, save for the steely glance of the matriarchal ruler. She sat contentedly on plush cushions, and leaning forward, tossed him the oddest challenge, a challenge that bore the greatest awe and the ugliest dread, precariously teetered on a grim, thin string of promise.

"If you escape this alive, you live, and are free," It was a contemptuous promise, gleefully malicious as its nuance betrayed the sureness of its contrary happening. 

So it was as he had heard; the circling rumours contained then at least that grain of truth. 

The prisoners had talked often and with greater urgency these days, himself included, that the method of execution was now, a historical watermark of public entertainment. They were to be as gladiators of old, loosed to savour the last moments of their old trade, fighting not wild tigers nor ferocious boarsbut a formidable demona masked demon who waited in its black cape, deceptively powerless until he fed on your fear and snatched your soul with the most fleeting of winks, unless one wrestled his life away again.

What was that saying-? That it was the lack of sight, and not armoury that overcame this evilmerely the lack of sight and unfailing couragethey had murmured among themselves in the panicked, bottomless spiral into hysteria, offering hypotheses fraught with trepidation that the defeat of this demonic apparition could only be achieved through the lack of sight

_Oh godthey had taken off his blindfold early on_

From his side, a bagful of silver armoury suddenly appeared, its opulent excess a mockery of his reawakening warrior training. One of his guards had placed it there, and now stood at the perimeter of the lush courtyard. 

They were watching with the same craving that famished castes showed to food, almost salivating in their eagerness to devour. 

He allowed himself a faint smile, bent and chose a gently curved blade, small and unerring, testing its sharpness, experimentally slashing it through the lethargic air, savouring the swooping ripples of sound, feeling the sharp revival of the sinewy muscles that had gradually wasted in the past months. Slowly, he went through the various pieces of weapons, testing them in the same manner until he was satisfied with the array, earning the impatient twitter of the royal crowd. Finally, a dagger was chosen, the humblest and the simplest of the lot. 

And still, he saw nothing except the ostentatious swish of colours and heard nothing but the snippets of conversation that diminished suddenly. 

The drums were still beating out a complex but steady tune of their own, the sole remaining sound that now curiously accelerated in time with his heartbeat. 

Something stood to his right, beyond his vision, yet already branding him slave to an unforgiving, stygian spectre that had begun its burning run into his consciousness. He knew then, without turning around, that the demon had appeared, and waited, poised with eternal damnation in its wings. 

_You live, and are freeyou live, and are freeyou live, and are freeyou live, and are free_was the obstinate mantra that he mentally chantedwere those also not the ruler's words? 

The drums died down, a gawky break from their initial rippling rhythm. 

He whipped around, so fast that it was muscularly painful, squarely facing an unmoving, hooded figure whose still-concealed countenance sucked even the emptiest of men dry. _Unfailing courage_that was what they said - the wheeze in his lungs surprised him; his body must have reacted; he found himself running with his extended hand holding the blade, a warrior's harsh battle cry raised towards that spectre that only seemed to recede but not fade

A painful thud made his head spin in dizzying circles, and he squinted in vexation, for anything tangible to visually consume and anchor himself to.

The placid, timeless expression of a white, porcelain mask greeted him from low beneath the hood, and behind the mask, glowing, silver and blue eyes stripped of emotion and bent in the favour of hell. He dipped his head downwards, with no remembrance of how he came to be in this position and found his own neck suddenly rearing upwardshe thought perhaps, he must have tripped in his haste to stab the terrifying ghostyet his fall had been accompanied by the thinnest of whistles and the swiftest of moves; he had been caught in mid-air by the strange lyrical music, the deadly pianissimo of the singing lasso. 

Now he felt himself dragged to the foot of the demon, breathing heavily in that awkward heap, watching fingersunnaturally slender and long fingers unfurling elegantly in front of his eyes. 

_Cursed be every moment from now onwards in which he could see._

Those fingers, carrying an obscene, sinful wealth of grace within them, pulled his neck upwards to face the mask, while its other hand unhurriedly removed it. 

He scrabbled backwards, exploding vociferously into many broken invocations that his memory dredged up but the freshness of the horror remained obstinate. He threw up, trying to purge the nightmare through his widely opened mouth, trapped abruptly in the amoral universe where survival ruled, suffering a brief sojourn from the mismatched eyes that hunted him ceaselessly. A plunge into oblivion would have been a more blessed fate. 

In that instant of dawning awareness, he knew he was going to die. 

Oh, the turn of the tables had been so unexpected; the initial exultation wore off, leaving the residual aftertaste of hopelessness and the lingering base note of terror. 

With a careless flick of an unseen wrist, he catapulted into nothingness, the crack of broken bone deafening in the rapturous silence. The executioner leant forward, loosening his lasso with another graceful movement, an obedient pet returning quietly to sleep within the folds of his cloak. The hood fell down again and by the time he straightened to face the spectators, the white mask was once again in place as if it had never been removed.

The freshly garrotted body collapsed noisily in front of the reclining Maharani; she paled slightly, no longer smiling. He now stood in front of the body, staring deep, unflinchingly, into her dilated pupils.

Finally, from his lips came effortlessly the purest of tones, harvested from the adoration of heaven's angels and the wails of demons combined. 

"Behold your prisoner, Madame," The executioner spat mockingly with a dismissive wave of his hand. And with a swirl of his cloak, he was gone, as silently as he had appeared. 


End file.
